The Strangeness of Marty McFly
by who is sabrina
Summary: Marty McFly was the weirdest kid a lot of people had ever met. A collection of one-shots exploring the strangeness and memorability of one Marty McFly, seen through the eyes of many different people over many different times. Disclaimer: I don't own BTTF.
1. Goldie Wilson

Mayor Goldie Wilson settled with a sigh into the worn park bench, listening to the cracked wood creak precariously beneath his weight. He remembered when this bench had been like new, back in the 50s, when he was young and driven and naive. But now it was 1985, and the years had taken their toll on the woodwork, and on Goldie as well. But he had always managed to hold on to his positivity and stubbornness, and he was grateful for that. Because of it, he had been mayor of their wonderful little city, and was now up for re-election. And oh, how he hoped he would win it. There was still work to be done in Hill Valley. There was always work to be done.

He was brought out of his thoughts rather abruptly as a teenager suddenly skateboarded in his direction. The teen took his eyes off the sidewalk before him as he distractedly looked at his watch, checking the time intently, and as such, Goldie saw what the teen didn't: the rock sitting innocently on the sidewalk in the direct path of the kid's skateboard. Goldie opened his mouth to give a warning, but it was too late; the wheels of the skateboard hit the rock, and sent the boy roughly to the ground with little grace.

"Are you okay, son?" Goldie asked immediately, getting up and moving toward the brown-haired boy, who was wincing, but was already getting back on his feet.

"Oh, yeah," the boy responded casually, "it's-" But then he stopped as he turned and looked into Goldie's face, something akin to shock appearing in his cerulean eyes. "…Fine," he finished finally, with a faint grin. Internally, Goldie thought this strange; he had never gotten that kind of reaction from anyone. He was used to seeing a small flash of recognition in some people's eyes when they recognized him as mayor, and maybe a subtle hint of either fondness or annoyance (depending on their views of his politics), but never had he seen such an odd and seemingly strong reaction. Some sort of recognition more powerful than just "oh, yeah, it's the mayor". But, being mayor, he knew a lot about the "rules" of polite social interaction, and showed no sign of these thoughts in his carefully-schooled expression. Instead, he looked the boy over with genuine concern (he really did have a big heart for his citizens), and said instead:

"Are you sure? It looked like a nasty fall," he commented. The boy's jeans were ripped a little, and he was pretty sure he spotted some blood on the boy's palms. But the kid seemed fine, and even seemed to be in a pretty good mood.

"Oh, I've had worse, sir," he grinned hugely, and now it was the mayor's turn to feel shocked. Because, inexplicably, he felt - no, he _knew_ \- that he had seen that grin before. And suddenly, memories from his past came rushing to the forefront, memories of an odd sort of kid, who dressed strangely and stood up to bullies and was never afraid. That kid who seemed to just sort of know things. The one he owed so much to.

Calvin Klein. He could remember the moment like it had happened just yesterday.

 _"And one day, I'm gonna be somebody!" Goldie had said to George McFly, with a determined smile that he seemed to wear nearly all the time. He had said this many times before. But never had he expected the response that he got._

 _The kid next to George McFly, just a stranger at the time, spoke up with complete confidence._

 _"That's right!" he said in agreement. "He's gonna be mayor!" The kid had said it with utter sureness, as if it was an obvious fact, as if he had been stating that of course the sky was blue. And for just a second, it had shocked Goldie. But then he had recovered in a heartbeat, leaping at the idea with vigorous enthusiasm._

 _"Mayor!" he had echoed, the proverbial lightbulb going off in his mind. "Now_ that's _a good idea! Mayor Goldie Wilson!"_

The strange Calvin "Marty" Klein had gone on to cause much ruckus in the town, and had certainly left his mark. But more than anything, his words had left a mark on Goldie. Whenever he felt discouraged or dejected, he remembered those words, and the certainty with which they had been spoken. _"He's gonna be mayor!"_

With a jolt, Goldie returned to the present as the teen before him cleared his throat pointedly. The mayor snapped back to attention, embarrassed, but found that the kid was looking at him with knowing eyes. Eerily familiar eyes. The mayor suppressed a shiver. The kid looked _exactly_ like Marty Klein.

"Sorry," the mayor apologized good-naturedly. "It's just that you remind me of someone I once knew." And again, the kid surprised him. Most people his age would roll their eyes or barely manage to stifle their annoyance or boredom, expecting the mayor to launch into an old and long-winded story about his past that they could care less about. But the teenager before him, however, looked excited at the prospect.

"Really?" he asked, grinning the same familiar grin, and nonchalantly wiping the blood off his hands onto the fabric of his jeans. It looked like something Marty Klein would have done, brushing off an injury like it was nothing. The two were so similar it was unnerving.

"Yes, you do. He was a remarkable man," Goldie told him fondly, and the kid's wide grin faded smoothly into something like quiet pride. But maybe that was just Goldie interpreting things weirdly. Why would he be proud?

"Well," the teen began, putting one foot back on his skateboard and clearly getting ready to leave, "it was great meeting you, Mr. Wilson." He sounded sincere.

"Likewise, Mr…?" the mayor of Hill Valley trailed off, waiting for a name. And for a second, the teen said nothing, and Goldie could tell that he was doing some quick thinking. Making a decision. And in the next second his eyes lit up with a mischievous glint.

"Klein," he supplied politely. "Calvin Klein."

And with one last glance at his watch, he placed his headphones over his ears and skated away expertly, leaving behind a shocked Goldie Wilson staring after him. And if anyone had asked about Goldie's odd behavior the rest of the day, well, he could always say it was the stress of re-election.


	2. Marvin Berry and the Starlighters

Marvin Berry slid into the passenger seat of Reginald's car, and the rest of his band, the self-proclaimed "Starlighters", piled in after him. Reginald stuck the keys into the ignition, gave it a quick turn, and then the engine roared to life. The blazing afternoon sun made the car uncomfortably hot, and Marvin rolled down the passenger side window, ignoring its screeches of protest. In a minute, they were trundling down the street, Hill Valley's only high school disappearing in the rear view mirror.

"See?" Steve spoke up triumphantly, his deep voice amusingly similar to the upright bass he played. "The kid _did_ just vanish! His friends even said so." True enough, the band had just come from an interesting conversation with two high school lovebirds, George McFly and Lorraine Baines. These two had been the only ones mentioned by principal Strickland when asked about the strange boy who had played guitar with them at the Enchantment Under the Sea dance. After finishing their last number for the night, the Starlighters had searched eagerly through the crowd for their strange young friend, but there had been no sign of him. The rest of the band were inclined to think that he had simply retired early, but Steve had been quick to suggest that this "Marty" had simply vanished into thin air.

"They did not say he _vanished_ , Steve," Jeremiah, the saxophone player, reasoned. "They said he left early, that's all. Just a little before ten o'clock."

"But why haven't they seen him since?" Steve retorted, unwilling to be thrown off so easily. No one had an answer for that, and Steve grinned. "It's because he disappeared! Right off the face of the earth! I'm telling you, he was a _ghost_."

"Aw, come on, man," Marvin sighed exasperatedly. Yes, each band member had developed their own theory in their increasingly-complicated game of _Who was that kid?_ , but Steve's was by far the most illogical.

"Ghosts are transparent, man. He couldn't have played guitar with us," Jeremiah argued.

"Okay," Steve relented. "An angel, then!" But Marvin spluttered indignantly.

"What angel would do _that_ to another man's guitar?" Steve frowned, but the others chuckled fondly.

"Yeah, that kid was sure crazy," Reginald remarked, almost admiringly.

"Listen, how far is Riverside Drive? I want some _answers_ ," complained John, nimble fingers tapping impatiently on the back of the carseat in front of him.

"It should only be a few minutes, man," Reginald replied. "And quit tapping on my seat." John took his hand obediently off the back of his friend's seat. But the prospect of answers was too exciting; they might finally figure out just who Calvin "Marty" Klein was. George and Lorraine hadn't had much information to give, to everyone's disappointment, but Lorraine had been able to direct them to the home of Marty's uncle, one Dr. Emmett Brown. Every minute closer to the scientist's house was one minute closer to their little mystery's solution, and John found himself too antsy to sit still. He began to play an invisible piano just to give his hands something to do.

"If nobody's going to jump on the ghost theory, what other theories do you guys have?" Steve asked. "I'd like to hear something that makes sense for a change."

"I'll tell you exactly who Marty is!" Reginald piped up from behind the wheel. "He's-" But the loud groans coming from the rest of the band interrupted his explanation.

"Please," Marvin sighed. "We don't need to be hearing your crazy theory again, Reginald. You've been reading too many comic books, man."

"Yeah, and I did ask to hear something that _makes sense_ ," Steve added.

"Okay, okay," Reginald grumbled, waving them quiet. "Don't believe me. But I _know_ I'm right."

"How about you, John?" Jeremiah wondered. "What do you think?" The piano player grinned hugely at being addressed, for he was positive he had the right theory. It wasn't so much what he thought, but what he _knew_. He could remember all the details of the moment like it had happened only a minute ago...

 **...**

 _His fingers danced across the piano keys expertly, leaving his mind free to wander, and so he watched curiously as Marty smoothly strummed the first few chords on Marvin's guitar. Marvin, watching him appraisingly, nodded in satisfaction, moved towards the mic, and then began to croon "Earth Angel" to the crowd. But Marty, John noticed, was not paying attention to the crowd at all; he was looking intently at a photograph that he had stuck through the strings of Marvin's guitar, and was staring at it like a lost explorer frantically studying a map. But after a quick glance, he looked away, out into the crowd. John turned his attention back to the keys beneath his fingers._

 _In a moment, however, he was distracted again; weird noises were suddenly emitting from the guitar. The kid they had found in the trunk of Reginald's car had started to play the wrong chords. Frowning, he looked over at the boy in question. Marty had stopped playing for a moment, and was using the time to bring a hand to his forehead. A wave of concern swept through John at the sight; was the kid starting to get sick? Maybe it was stage fright. But then Marty resumed playing, and John noticed the boy's fingers slipping and fumbling on the neck of the guitar. Either the kid had a major case of stage fright, or... something was seriously wrong._

 _And then, quite suddenly, Marty was sitting down, but it looked to John more like collapsing in slow motion. His hand was still fumbling with the strings, making a valiant effort to continue playing, but the boy was now leaning over at an odd angle. The slump in his shoulders and the change in his demeanor was obvious. Everything about him screamed that something was terribly wrong._

 _"Hey, boy," John called softly, his concern and confusion leaking into his tone. The kid had been perfectly healthy just minutes ago, hadn't he? "You all right?" he asked. He wondered briefly whether they needed to stop the performance. Marty looked like he needed a doctor, or at the very least a glass of water and some rest. John waited for his response, quite glad that he could continue to play without paying any attention to the piano. And then Marty turned to face him._

 _"I can't play," he admitted, sounding vaguely surprised and uncertain. His wide, cerulean eyes were filled with apprehension, something like intense fear, and... pain? John could see cold sweat running down the boy's face. But before the pianist could ask if they needed to stop the show, Marty had turned back around, somehow still attempting to play._

 _But now the boy was only barely managing to hold onto the guitar. John watched as he glanced once more at the mysterious photograph. In the next second, the kid abandoned all pretense; he doubled over, apparently in intense pain. By now, John was only continuing to play on pure instinct; the whole of his attention was focused on the strange young man in front of him. Astonishment at the kid's condition shut down all rational thought, and John could only watch as the boy continued to worsen._

 _"George," John heard him mutter weakly. The sheer pain and desperation in Marty's voice sent ice through John's veins. He heard Marvin's singing as is from a very great distance._

 _"The vision of your happiness, oooh!" And then - a miracle. As Marvin sang out the words "earth angel", Marty, who John assumed had passed out, sprang up suddenly into a sitting position. And in the next instant, he was standing on his own power, strumming the chords expertly. Marvin continued to sing, Marty continued to play, and John could only marvel at the sudden change. The kid seemed to be perfectly fine now, as if nothing had even happened in the first place._

 _Later, as he watched Marty leave the stage to a smattering of polite applause, John made a mental note to tell the band what had happened just as soon as they had finished their performance for the night. Maybe they could use Reginald's car to give the strange kid a ride to the hospital; it would make John, at least, feel better..._

 **...**

"He's a spy," John announced assuredly.

" _What?!_ " Jeremiah exclaimed. Marvin had actually turned around in his seat to stare, agape, at the pianist.

"I'm telling you, he was poisoned!" John insisted. Steve scoffed at him, but John continued undaunted. "You guys didn't see him; he looked like he was about to die right there! Deathly pale, sweating, _clearly_ in horrible pain. And you heard those awful sounds he was making on that guitar! He couldn't even _play_ , for crying out loud. I only know one thing that can do that to a man, and that's _poison_."

"Who would poison an innocent teenager?! And how could a young kid be a spy?" Marvin challenged, shaking his head.

"How do you explain his behavior, if he wasn't a spy?" John shot back. "I mean, getting locked in the trunk of a car? And the way he was always running everywhere, in some big hurry. And Steve, that would explain how he vanished! Probably changed his cover, moved on to a new assignment somewhere. And of course that's why nobody really knew anything about him."

"It does make some sense, I'll admit that," Steve conceded. "But I still don't buy it."

"Well, we'll find out the truth in a minute," Reginald informed them. "This is Riverside Drive." At these words, everyone sat up straight, looking eagerly out the window, and in a moment, they rolled to a stop at the address Lorraine had given them. It was a beautiful, sprawling mansion with a polished, manicured lawn.

"Spies can afford nice houses for their relatives," John said pointedly, and then they all clambered out of the car. They crossed the spacious lawn in quick, urgent strides, and then crowded around the door. Marvin reached out with his uninjured hand, and rang the doorbell. The band waited with bated breath. A beat of silence. Another...

"Just a moment!" called a voice, from somewhere deep within the house. A couple of crashes. Hurried footsteps. Unintelligible muttering.

"Yes?" asked the voice, much closer now. The door was yanked open, revealing an eccentric man wearing a brightly-patterned shirt and an off-white lab coat that looked like it had seen some damage. The man's hair was flyaway, adding to his odd appearance, and Marvin stifled a grin; if this was really Marty's uncle, it seemed that strangeness was rather a family trait.

"Hello, sir," Marvin greeted politely. "Are you Dr. Emmett Brown?" The man in question said nothing for a moment, but studied them all, calculating eyes seeming to register every detail.

"I am," Dr. Brown replied finally. "And you are?"

"I'm Marvin Berry," Marvin informed him. "And these are my friends - Reginald, John, Steve, and Jeremiah." He gestured to each one of them in turn.

"I see," the scientist nodded. "I'm afraid I'm rather busy at the moment," he continued briskly, "so would you mind telling me why you're here?"

"Well, we're a band, you see," Marvin began to explain. "And we recently played at-" But Reginald could see that the scientist was not in the mood to listen to a full explanation, so he got right to the point, interrupting Marvin.

"We just wanted to ask you about your nephew, Marty." The change in the scientist was instantaneous. He was immediately alert and attentive, and scanned them all with new eyes. He seemed almost suspicious. Cautiously, he leaned over the doorway and peered in both directions, checking that the street was empty.

"You know Marty?" he asked them seriously, raising himself to his full height and staring down at them warily. They all nodded. "What do you know?"

"Well, nothing really," John admitted, and Dr. Brown visibly relaxed. "That's why we came to ask you about him."

"You see, some idiots locked him in the trunk of my car," Reginald explained. The doctor looked slightly alarmed at this information, but said nothing.

"And the keys were in the trunk with him, so I had to force the lock with a screwdriver," Marvin put in. "We got him out fine, but I sliced my hand, so I couldn't play guitar anymore."

"So Marty played guitar with us," Steve continued. "He seemed pretty adamant that the dance continue, so he stepped in for Marvin. We couldn't have done it without him."

"But after the dance, we couldn't find him," Jeremiah concluded. "So we asked around, and Lorraine told us that you're his uncle. We just wanted to thank him for playing with us. He's a really cool guy."

"And we wanted to make sure he was alright," John added, unable to forget the strange illness or injury that had come and gone in equal rapidity. This again got the scientist's attention, and he frowned.

"Why?" Dr. Brown asked sharply. "Was he hurt?"

"Uh... maybe?" John responded, wishing he had something more articulate to offer. But the scientist seemed to understand.

"That kid," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Fondness, concern, and irritation were blended into his tone. After a moment of silence, he seemed to suddenly remember his guests.

"Well, I'll pass on your gratitude to him when I see him, as well as your concern. But he's away right now, and I _am_ rather busy at the moment," he said again.

"Oh," was all Marvin could manage. They had all gotten the hint. It was time for them to leave. But the Starlighters couldn't help but be disappointed. They had come for answers, and now they would have to leave without any. But it wasn't like they could stand there and demand answers; the scientist was clearly reluctant to tell them anything about the secretive Marty Klein.

"Okay," John spoke up, recognizing defeat. "Thanks for your time. Have a good day." And so saying, he turned and headed back towards the car, the others following suit. All except for Reginald. He teetered for a moment, on the cusp of giving up and returning to the car with everyone else. But then everything Marty had said, all of the vital evidence, came swirling into his mind in a rush.

 _If they can't kiss, they can't fall in love and I'm history._

 _Well, it's an oldie where I come from._

 _I guess you guys aren't ready for that yet. But your kids are gonna love it._

This was it; it was now or never. This was the only way to know if his theory was correct.

"Dr. Brown," he blurted, approaching the scientist. "Is Marty... Is Marty from the future?" For a moment, the scientist said nothing, his expression unreadable, and Reginald felt hope blossom in his chest. Maybe he was right, and the scientist was shocked speechless that he had figured it out. And then, the scientist leaned closer, and a mixture of emotions began to write themselves upon his features: curiosity, amusement, understanding. Reginald leaned in too, heart pounding in excitement, to hear Dr. Brown's response...

"You've been watching _Science Fiction Theatre_ , haven't you?"


	3. Western Union Man

Jack Pearson had won this shift in a game of cards.

Of course, that wasn't how shifts were usually selected at Western Union; he and his colleagues got along very well, and all of them were pretty flexible about the shifts they were willing to take. There was never any argument. But this shift - the night shift of November 12th, 1955 - well, _this_ shift was something special. Everyone, quite understandably, wanted it. And so they had settled it like the buddies they were - by a friendly (but particularly competitive) game of poker. Jack Pearson liked to think of himself as a fairly accomplished player, and on top of that, luck had been on his side that night. So now, on this night, he found himself driving out of Hill Valley's downtown underneath turbulent clouds and intermittent strikes of lightning.

Letting out a steadying breath, Jack gripped the steering wheel of his car tightly and drove onward, a weird mix of feelings surging up within him: excitement, anticipation, uncertainty. All of this craziness and mystery because of one letter - the strange letter that had mystified Western Union workers for decades. Yes, _decades_. Seventy years, two months, and twelve days, to be exact.

A few quiet _thuds_ on his windshield brought Jack out of his thoughts; it had started to rain. Within seconds, it began to pour in earnest. He would have to thank his wife later for making him keep an umbrella in the car at all times. He grinned; she was going to say _I told you so_.

A particularly bright bolt of lightning lit up the road before him, and in the momentary flash, Jack saw the new stone markers that designated where the Lyon Estates subdivision would soon be built. This was the place. His heart beat faster in his chest, and he glanced quickly to his watch; this was the right time, too. Doubtful and yet hopeful at the same time, Jack leaned forward to stare into the inky blackness past his headlights. He could see nothing yet, but he knew what he was looking for; he let the words run through his mind one last time, saw the cramped, messy writing scrawled into the "notes" section of the order:

 _Deliver to Marty McFly - young man, brown hair, blue eyes, wearing black leather jacket, red shirt._

Now Jack Pearson had always been a rational man, good with numbers and adept at logic. So the idea of there actually being a "Marty" here, on this day, at this time, dressed as described - all of it was nothing short of impossible. The closer he got to this moment, the more reasons he had to doubt, and even now, the sudden turn in the weather meant that _nobody_ would be outside. There would be no one in the street, Jack's brain determined. No young man in a leather jacket. No Marty McFly. And yet, as he slowed the car and trundled forward, he could not help but hope.

And then, to his utter amazement, a silhouette. A figure, standing in the street. A coincidence? But no - it certainly looked like a young man, although he was facing the other direction, unaware of Jack's approach. He was looking up into the sky, head turning this way and that, as if searching for something. In one hand, Jack could see a walkie talkie. And in the other - as if this night needed to be any stranger - the kid was holding the burnt end of a colorful flagged banner.

Cautiously, Jack continued forward. The kid had heard the car; in one quick movement, he threw the banner away from him and whirled around. Automatically, Jack pressed down on the brake and let the car roll to a stop. But he didn't get out; he was frozen in shock. Because the young man that looked back at him, white-faced in the glare of Jack's headlights, _exactly_ matched the description on the order, right down to the red shirt and black leather jacket. The kid's brown hair was darkened, though, in the rain. His wide blue eyes stared back at Jack, looking frightened and somehow lost. Fear and grief were written inexplicably across the boy's features, and Jack was struck suddenly by just how young he was. Beneath the black sky and the howling winds, the kid seemed very small.

The young man blinked uncomprehendingly in the headlights, and Jack remembered his job with a jolt. Grabbing his umbrella from the floor of the passenger side, he opened the door with a _clunk_ and clambered out. He opened his umbrella and held it over his head, but did not advance any further.

"Mr. McFly!" Jack yelled. He had meant it as a question, but it came out more like a shout as he tried to make himself heard over the pounding rain and occasional clap of thunder. The young man in question only stared confusedly back. A weak "huh?" escaped his lips.

"Is your name Marty McFly?" Jack rephrased, making sure to be loud and clear. The boy before him looked shocked.

"Yeah," he said, but he remained standing where he was, steadily getting more and more drenched. The idea that Marty McFly was indeed standing there, that Jack was about to deliver a letter to him that must have been written _long_ before he was born, felt so surreal to Jack that he wondered, for a moment, if he was dreaming. But he shook it off and advanced towards Marty in a determined march.

"I've got something for you," Jack explained, shoving his hand in his jacket for the package that contained the letter. But his eyes were still on Marty, not yet able to believe what he was seeing. His fingers reached the edge of the package. "A letter," he announced, pulling it roughly out of his jacket. He did not miss the way Marty jumped back, flinching, almost as if expecting Jack to pull a gun on him. The Western Union man frowned, curious and now concerned. What had the kid been through? Up close, he could see that on top of being utterly soaked, Marty's clothes were clearly disheveled, and the kid's knuckles were cut and bleeding in places, as if he had been fighting. And yet here he stood, completely alone. In the rain. At night. In the middle of the street. Holding a walkie talkie and a banner of colorful _flags_ , for crying out loud! Jack resisted the urge to slap his palm to his forehead, or to pinch himself, or to pinch this "Marty", just to see if he was real.

"A letter for me?" Marty repeated. He looked confused still, evidently having no idea what was going on. Jack couldn't help him there; he was sure he understood even less. "That's impossible," Marty breathed, but he stowed the walkie talkie in his pocket anyway, and reached out for the mysterious letter. "Who the hell are you?" he asked as he took it.

"Western Union," Jack replied promptly. But now that they were on questions, Jack had several of his own. "Actually, a bunch of us at the office were kind of hoping maybe you could shed some light on the subject. See, we've had that envelope in our possession for the last 70 years!" A look of amazement spread across Marty's face, and Jack was heartened at the sight; finally, a normal reaction!

"It was given to us," Jack explained, as he walked back to his car for the clipboard, "with the specific instructions that it be delivered to a young man with your description..." He paused as he reached into the car and pulled out the clipboard, before heading back to Marty's side. The kid was already fumbling with the package like he couldn't get it open fast enough. "...answering to the name of 'Marty'," he continued, "at this exact location, at this exact minute, November 12th, 1955. We had a little bet going as to whether this 'Marty' would actually be here," Jack admitted. "Looks like I lost!" He laughed good-naturedly, but Marty, it appeared, was not in the mood for laughter. He had pulled the yellowed envelope out of the wrapped package, and was now staring down incredulously at the envelope in his hands. He glanced up at Jack once more.

"Did you say seventy years?" he asked.

"Seventy years, two months, twelve days, to be exact," Jack nodded. He pulled out a pen and handed it to Marty. "Here, sign on line six." Jack proffered the clipboard to Marty, who signed immediately and returned the pen, still looking just as bewildered as Jack felt. And then he slid his finger through the envelope, opening it, and Jack felt a rush of excitement. Here was the moment of truth! He watched eagerly as the kid unfolded the letter and stared at it for a second, looking intently at the bottom of the letter, where Jack knew the signature would be.

"It's from the Doc!" Marty shouted suddenly, completely elated, and Jack started, surprised at the kid's sudden change in attitude. "The Doc", whoever he was, had evidently brought good news. But wait a minute - how did this "Marty" _know_ this "Doc"? Wouldn't "Doc", as the author, have lived in the 1800s? Maybe the kid was just confused. But Marty's bright blue eyes, widened in pleasurable surprise, and his huge, ecstatic grin, both said otherwise. Before Jack could ask any questions though, Marty darted off, moving to stand in front of the headlights of Jack's car, so as to better read the letter. Jack hurried after him with the umbrella, wanting to help protect both the letter and the boy from the chilling rain.

Unashamedly, Jack peered over Marty's shoulder as the boy started to read; Jack was sure he had never been this interested in anything, his whole life long. But it turned out that he didn't need to peek; Marty, in his excitement, had thrown all caution to the winds, and was reading the letter aloud.

" _Dear Marty_ ," he read. " _If my calculations are correct, you will receive this letter immediately after you saw the DeLorean struck by lightning. First, let me assure you that I am alive and well. I've been living happily these past eight months in the year 1885. The lightning bolt_ -" But Marty interrupted himself, an earlier part of the letter dawning on him in a flash. "1885!" he repeated, sounding weirdly delighted. "September 1885!" And then he actually shouted in triumph, before breaking into a sudden run.

"Wait, wait!" Jack called out. "Kid, wait a minute!" It was only thanks to Jack's years of practice as a dad with squirmy toddlers and rambunctious boys - who loved to run off into busy streets and large crowds - that he managed to grab Marty's arm and wheel him around. "What's this all about?" Jack shouted over the rain, confused and flustered and desperate.

"He's alive!" Marty shouted back, simply radiating happiness and relief. "The Doc's alive!" Jack nodded, the kind of nod you give when you don't really understand at all. "He's in the Old West, but he's alive!" Marty crowed. The knowledge seemed to give the kid hope, seemed to ignite it in him like a raging fire. But the words meant nothing to Jack Pearson, who realized he was only getting more and more mystified as the night wore on. Even hearing part of the letter had done nothing for his comprehension, with its strange words and indecipherable meaning. Had it been in code?

Jack was still in the dark about everything that had happened, but before he could ask anything else, the kid turned and started to run again. In an instant, Jack resigned himself to the fact that the kid was on a mission now, and nothing was going to stop him, nor would he be delayed by having to explain the whole, evidently insane, situation. But Jack could not forget the cold rain, the ferocious storm raging around them, or the lightning that sparked threateningly through the skies. He could not forget Marty's clothes, disheveled and torn, or his knuckles, cut and bleeding. Nor could he forget the bruises he could see beginning to blossom on Marty's face. And so, before Marty could leave, Jack grabbed the back of his jacket once more, the wet leather slippery beneath his fingers.

"Yeah, but kid!" he shouted still louder. "You all right?" he asked. "You need any help?" But Marty only squinted at him through the rain, an odd expression playing on his face.

"There's only one man who can help me," he declared, and then he was gone, sprinting off in the pouring rain, melting away into darkness.

For a moment, Jack simply stood there, staring at the place where the strange young man had vanished. The rain spattered on his umbrella, the headlights of his car illuminated the growing pool the street had become, and Jack wondered what on earth had just happened. He had just delivered an impossible letter to an impossible recipient, who had babbled on excitedly about a person that he could _not_ have known. There had been mention of lightning, of the Old West, and of something Jack had never heard before, called a "DeLorean". The bizarre events of the night washed over Jack Pearson in one confusing wave of utter incomprehension.

He sighed, watching his breath steam up in the cold air, and then climbed tiredly back into his car. He dropped the umbrella onto the floor of the passenger side, tossed the clipboard onto the passenger seat, and then banged his head unceremoniously upon the steering wheel. For the first time, he wished fervently that somebody else had won that poker game.

"Oh, God," he moaned. "They'll _never_ believe this."


	4. Griff Tannen

Griff Tannen had, without question, inherited his grandfather's hatred of the McFlys. Biff Tannen had always looked down on that strange family, despised them and antagonized them just because of their existence. This, Griff understood whole-heartedly; he shared these feelings completely. However, his grandfather had always had a kind of grudging respect for and fear of the McFlys, something that Griff himself had never, ever understood. At least... until today. Sitting in the backseat of the police car, glowering at his scraped up palms, he couldn't help but remember.

 **…**

"What's it gonna be, McFly?" he asked fiercely, as Martin McFly cowered in front of him. Griff's gang stood on both sides of him, and together they formed an intimidating semicircle around the unfortunate Martin. "Are you in, or out?" Griff watched in satisfaction as Martin stumbled over his words, an undeniable note of pleading in his voice.

"Um, I'm just not sure that I should, you know?" Martin managed in a rush. Griff almost laughed at the sheer weakness of his attempted resistance. "Because I think that I should discuss it with my father."

" _Your father?!_ " Griff yelled, infuriated at the mention of yet another McFly. "Wrong answer, McFly!" They had roughed Martin up a little before, but clearly it hadn't been enough. Which was just fine with Griff; his quickly-increasing irritation was longing to be let out. So he reached out and picked up Martin bodily, throwing him right over the Cafe 80s counter in a satisfying show of strength. Martin slammed into the wall of TVs behind the counter before crashing painfully to the tiled floor, momentarily blocked from Griff's view. The whole cafe was now watching the dramatic scene unfold, and the two bikers had stopped pedaling. They stood up together, halfheartedly wanting to intervene.

"Keep pedaling!" Griff screamed, pointing at them dangerously. They sunk back onto the bike seats, reluctantly complying. That taken care of, Griff turned his attention back to the empty space behind the counter, waiting for Martin to stagger back into his view. And then - Martin stood.

Griff couldn't help but take several involuntary steps backward, shock writing itself plainly across his slack features. Martin _looked_ the same, sure. But there was something indefinably _different_. The young McFly stared back at him calmly and coolly, with an air of defiance and sureness that Griff had never before seen - not on Martin, not on _anyone_. Griff actually tilted his head out of sheer confusion, watching this new Martin, suddenly uncertain.

And then, to top it all off, Martin leaped over the counter. The movement was smooth and silent, nothing like the clumsy Martin he had bullied and badgered his whole life. He wasn't awkward or nervous or frightened. He was deft, confident, _experienced_. For a moment, Griff could only continue to stare. But Martin still had not agreed to help him, and his gang was still behind him, waiting to see what he would do. So he snapped himself out of it, letting his hatred and anger fuel him.

"Now," he began again, grabbing hold of Martin in a vice-like grip. He made sure to infuse every syllable with as much danger as he could muster. "Let's hear the _right_ answer."

Martin, in fact, gave no answer. But he wrenched himself out of Griff's hold and shoved the bigger man back several steps, all in one fluid movement.

"Wow!" Griff shouted, surprised, annoyed, and eager all at once. "Since when did you become the physical type?" For the first time, Martin was actually fighting back. And that would make it so much sweeter when Griff won.

"Answer's no, Griff."

"No?"

"Yeah. What are you, deaf _and_ stupid? I said no!" And with that, the boy turned and headed for the cafe doors. Griff couldn't believe it. This was it. It was falling apart. The perfect scenario in which Martin fearfully gave into him was crumbling down around him. Griff stepped forward aggressively, unwilling to let Martin walk away, unable to let himself lose to a McFly.

"What's wrong, McFly?" he called, a last ditch effort to prevent Martin from leaving. "Chicken?" And to his delight, Martin stopped. He stilled right in his tracks, suddenly, almost eerily immobile. One of Griff's friends pressed a button, and the sounds of a squawking chicken echoed in the tense cafe atmosphere. Martin turned.

"What did you call me, Griff?" he asked. And if Griff hadn't been so busy trying to rile him up, perhaps he would have been more alarmed at the fact that Martin could sound dangerous, too.

"Chicken, McFly!" he yelled instead, through gritted teeth. His friend played the chicken sound again, and Griff took the opportunity to expand the bat that was hidden safely behind his back.

"Nobody," Martin began, throwing his hat away, "calls me-" But he broke off as Griff pulled the bat out from behind his back, and lowered it threateningly in front of Martin's face. Martin sighed, with a wry chuckle. "...chicken," he finished. But he didn't seem scared or threatened, or even shaken in the slightest. There was only resignation and determination in his eyes.

Griff swung his bat back wide, and launched at Martin with all the force he could muster. Martin shouted, but ducked out of the way with uncharacteristic agility. Too late to change course, Griff's bat embedded itself into the TV waiter, sending an unpleasant shock through his whole body. Shaken, he whirled around only to find Martin at the ready, fists raised in a fighting stance. And in that instant, one question struck Griff like a knock-out punch from a professional boxer: _Who was this kid?_

 _No_ , Griff reminded himself. This was nobody. Despite everything, the boy before him was still Martin McFly. Weak, spineless, pushover McFly. So Griff straightened up and raised himself to his full height, satisfied as he towered over Martin, whose eyes widened comically.

"Alright, _bug_!" Griff shouted, furious yet again.

"Hey, look!" Martin yelled suddenly, pointing off to the side. Instinctively, Griff turned his head. Martin used the distraction to take a swing at him, but Griff's state-of-the-art gadgets were, like always, on his side. His arm rose up to block Martin's swing, and Griff caught his fist easily. He crushed it in his strong, mechanically supplemented grip, and watched in satisfaction as Martin winced in pain.

But just like that, Griff's easy victory was snatched away once more. With his focus on Martin's failed swing, he hadn't seen the other boy bring his knee up with surprising force. But he did feel the pain that came right after, and he doubled over, now brimming with a furious rage that pounded in tandem with his humiliation and pain. But Martin grabbed him before he could straighten, and shoved him into his gang. They tumbled as one ungraceful heap to the tiled cafe floor, and watched as Martin dashed away through the double doors.

 **…**

The situation had only gotten worse from there, and at every turn, Martin had been faster, stronger, and more strategic. He had moved with the ease that comes only with experience, as if he had spent his days navigating dangerous obstacle courses, rather than nervously cowering before any form of conflict. It was as if Martin had _practiced_ it, as if he had lived this moment before, as if he knew how everything was meant to unfold.

So by the time Griff and his gang were flying through the air, seconds from crashing through the tinted glass of the courthouse facade, Griff had felt a sudden reversal. He had always been the one in power, the one dictating the moves and calling the shots, while shivering little Martin had been powerless, helpless, hopeless. But now, sitting alone in the back of a police car, Griff was the powerless one. Helpless. Hopeless. Defeated. In his mind's eye, he could see Martin's expression - calm, cool, confident. Powerful.

And for the first time in his life, he felt it - the strange respect and fear that his grandfather would never admit to, but nonetheless obviously possessed. There was something different about the McFlys, something _bigger_. Some strange sort of meaningfulness that hung around them, like destiny, or fate. An incomprehensible air of limitlessness, like the hands of time could not even restrain them.

Worn and discouraged and thoroughly unsettled, Griff doubled over in his seat, resting his head in his lap. He sighed into the denim of his Calvin Klein brand jeans that his grandfather had always mysteriously hated, and tried to set his mind on anything other than the McFly family. But his brain seemed determined to taunt him, and a vision of the new, unfamiliar Martin swam before his closed eyes.

" _Nobody,_ " Martin growled, voice low and menacing, " _calls me chicken._ "


	5. George McFly

George McFly watched his reflection in the hall mirror, sighing exasperatedly as his hands fumbled with his madly-uncooperative bowtie. The need for a fancy tuxedo, neatly-combed hair, and a shiny bowtie were a trifle irksome, sure. But overall, the extravagant balls and romantic evenings were a definite upshot of being a notable fiction author. At any rate, Lorraine enjoyed them immensely, and their kids were only too glad to have some evenings to themselves.

Tonight was one of those nights, and most of their kids had already taken advantage of their free evening; only Marty was left in the house. George could distantly hear the rushed, not-so-gentle movement of objects coming from his youngest son's room as he hurried to get ready. From the other end of the hall, Lorraine's soft, tuneless humming drifted from under their bedroom door as she, too, got ready for the evening.

Standing there opposite his finely-dressed reflection, under the roof of their beautiful home, and between a loving wife and energetic son, George was struck by just how lucky he was. But then again, it wasn't really luck, was it?

 _You two were meant for each other_ , Marty Klein had said. Yes, good old Calvin Klein had been the catalyst for George's change. He had helped him stand up to Biff, and earn Lorraine's affection. He had taught him to be himself, and to take pride in his identity. And he had shown him that _anything_ was possible, if you put your mind to it.

George smiled, fondly remembering his (sadly) long-lost friend. As a passionate writer even back then, George had always been one to notice people - the way they behaved, their peculiar habits, their nervous ticks. He would take note of strangers' posture and gait. The clenching of a little girl's fist as she argued with her friend. The slackening of a classmate's features as he dropped into a daydream. George would take these idiosyncrasies and infuse them into his characters, until they were less like paper and ink, and more like flesh and blood. He found that he was particularly grateful for this scrutinizing habit when it came to Marty Klein. So, even though he hadn't seen his friend since that fateful school dance, George McFly could remember quite a lot about Marty Klein.

A few things stuck out in his memory, like Marty's confident posture and unfailing boldness. The hint of steel that flashed in his eyes when confronted by Biff. His incomparable agility and oddly-successful stealth. Not to mention the teen's inexplicable struggles with the simplest of everyday items - soda bottle caps, typewriters, rotary phones. But George remembered one quirk most of all: Marty's incessant glances at his wristwatch. The quick downward dart of his eyes, in tandem with the slight angling of his wrist. Always followed by the near-imperceptible crinkling of his brow, as if worried, or pressured.

George had asked him about it once, after Marty had frowned at his watch face for what was probably the millionth time that hour.

 _"Have you got the wrong time?" he asked curiously. Marty looked up at him, startled. And then he laughed, laughed as if George had said the funniest thing he had heard all day._

 _"No, George," he replied finally, after composing himself. He was still grinning, but George could hear the slightest hint of strain in his friend's voice. It was almost like a reaction to a witty joke that's both hilarious and yet painfully, soberingly true. "There's nothing wrong with my watch." The edge of wistfulness in his tone only added to the mystery of it all. George hesitated, on the verge of pressing him for more information. But then Marty asked about the latest episode of_ Science Fiction Theatre _._

Sure, it had been an obvious attempt to change the conservation, George mused. But nonetheless, it had worked. George hadn't had the chance to ask Marty anything else before the mysterious teen left, and never returned.

 _Will we ever see you again?_ Lorraine had asked.

 _I guarantee it._

George was brought out of his reverie by the sound of a door being shoved open. He turned, and watched as young Marty McFly made his way down the hall towards him. George saw his son's eyes dart to the fridge in the kitchen, and knew instinctively the path Marty would take. Grab a soda from the fridge. Hook his Walkman to his belt. Head out the door with his skateboard.

"Where are you headed?" George asked him.

"Doc's," Marty answered simply. "Jennifer's gonna meet me there." George was in the middle of nodding his approval when he saw it: the quick downward dart of Marty's cerulean eyes. In tandem with the slight angling of his wrist. Followed by the near-imperceptible crinkling of his brow, as if worried, or pressured. Marty's watch face glinted in the hall lights.

George gulped, suddenly incapable of intelligent speech, and watched as Marty breezed past him, into the kitchen. Time seemed to slow as Marty reached for the refrigerator handle, a thousand impossible thoughts chasing each other through George's brain.

Half of him - the logical half - was screaming _coincidence_. Nearly everyone owned a watch, and if you owned one, why wouldn't you check it? The similar eye movement, the familiar twitch of the wrist - it meant nothing. It wasn't like there were millions of ways to check a wristwatch. Plenty of people performed that same exact motion. It wasn't like a fingerprint, or dental records, or DNA. It was coincidence, pure and simple.

But the other half - the half that loved science fiction, and thrived on conspiracy theories, and whole-heartedly encouraged his son's friendship with Hill Valley's very own mad scientist - was teasingly whispering _answers_. Here, maybe, were the answers to Calvin "Marty" Klein's impossible existence - the answers to his disappearance, to his strange sureness of future events. Here, perhaps, were answers to his son's uncanny similarities to Marty Klein. These similarities were throwing themselves in George's face now, one after the other, until he couldn't understand why he hadn't noticed any of it until now. Had he been utterly blind?

Whether the parallels between the two Marty's were coincidences or not, George knew one thing: he didn't want to be blind anymore. The novel-planning, clue-piecing part of his brain supplied him with some jigsaw pieces. _Watch. Time. Past. Future. Doc Brown. Machine...?_ The idea snowballed until George's crazy theory could no longer be contained. He had to test, he had to ask, he had to know.

"Hey, Marty." He was surprised by the calmness of his own voice.

"Yeah?" his son replied, swinging the fridge door open with a quiet rattle and leaning in to grab a drink.

"Do you know how to play _Johnny B. Goode_?" Instantly, Marty stilled. George's heart began to pound so fiercely in his chest that its thumping threatened to drown out any reply his son might make. He willed himself to calm down, to pay strict attention to anything Marty would - or wouldn't - say. But remaining calm was extraordinarily difficult in this situation. The sheer gravity of the moment weighed him down so that he couldn't move even if he wanted to. And yet his blood was rushing faster and faster through his veins. This could be the exact moment in which everything changed - his whole world, his every perception of the universe, the very concept of time itself.

And then Marty turned to face him, a can of Pepsi Free in one hand. He closed the door with his foot, then leaned back against the fridge, supremely nonchalant. He popped the tab. A hiss of pressurized air. The barely audible fizzing of the carbonated drink.

"I don't know, Dad," he shrugged. "Who's it by?" he asked, taking a sip. Marty's complete and total lack of response had George so bewildered that the artist's name escaped him.

"Berry," he said, after a moment of blinking owlishly at his son. "Chuck Berry."

"Chuck Berry?" Marty echoed, raising an eyebrow in quiet surprise. "That's an oldie," he laughed. Still grinning, he moved away from the fridge and past George, grabbing his Walkman off the kitchen table. But the word "oldie" had sparked something else in George. _One last try_ , he thought.

"It's an oldie where _you_ come from," he said carefully. His teenage son deftly slid the clip of his Walkman onto the waistband of his jeans as he turned to face his father once again. While his hands struggled briefly with the tangled jumble the wires of his headphones had become, his light eyes met George's.

"What?" Marty asked him, laughing. George searched, but found no trace of recognition, nor deceit. "Are you testing out dialogue for your next book or something? I'd vote no on that line. It's kind of strange." Headphone wires successfully tamed, Marty hung the headphones around his neck and strode smoothly to the front door.

George was significantly less confident now, precariously balanced on the fine line between disappointment and relief. He watched as Marty swung the screen door wide, and bent down to pick up his beloved skateboard.

"You... you didn't understand any of that?" George asked him.

Marty stepped outside, shut the screen door behind him, and looked back to his nonplussed father. The tiny, criss-cross weave of the screen made Marty look less like a living person, and more like a sketch out of a comic book. The teenager pulled his headphones up around his ears, never losing his wide, disarming grin.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Daddy-o." And with that suspiciously anachronistic turn of phrase, Marty disappeared out of frame, vanishing into the comic-book world outside.

At that moment, Lorraine appeared, striding into the hall in as good a mood as Marty had been. Her high heels clicked on the polished hardwood floor, and her diamond smile did nothing to help George's frazzled brain.

"You ready to go, dear?" she asked, approaching him until they were mere inches from each other. She reached out, nimble fingers deftly straightening George's bowtie. He could feel the warmth of her hands through his shirt. He wondered if she could feel the jackhammering of his heart, or somehow hear the frantic whirring of his uncoordinated thoughts. _Daddy-o? Coincidence? A joke? Chuck Berry? Comic books and science fiction?_

"George." Lorraine's familiar tones brought him, however briefly, to the present. "Are you ready to go?" she repeated.

"Yeah," he breathed, still vaguely rattled. A brief flash of headlights and a quick honk signaled the arrival of their hired car, and George forced himself to snap to attention. "Yes," he said, firmly. Turning to the door, he proffered an elbow, and Lorraine slid her hand into place, allowing him to lead her out the door and into the darkening night. "But let's get a drink first, okay?"


End file.
